


Teammates

by Lenore



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Baseball, M/M, Smut, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger is deep water, while Mickey himself wears everything he is on his skin. Still. If there's one thing he recognizes, it's somebody wanting something. Whether Roger realizes it or not, he's been looking Mickey's way since the season started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teammates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pun/gifts).



"You know you’re going to be the best looking fella there." Mickey lounges in the bathroom doorway like he's been invited to be there.

Roger starts, then ducks his head, sheepish that he's been caught studying himself in the medicine cabinet glass. Living with somebody, you really get to know them, and it's come as exactly no kind of surprise to Mickey that Roger is the least vain human in creation. It's taken his hair coming out in handfuls to make him linger in the bathroom—not congratulating himself on being one fine-looking son of a bitch the way Mickey does when it's his turn in front of the mirror—but fretting that he might actually go bald before he can hit number 61.

He's had plenty of help getting into this sorry state. Yesterday's headline in the _Times_ sports page was: _Maris buckling under pressure?_ The boo birds came to the ballpark last night, like it's Roger's fault that Mickey's got this whatever-it-is in his hip.

"I've got a dinner tonight," Roger says, grimly, like it's punishment. "With some of the clubhouse reporters. The front office thought—"

Mickey's had evenings just like this. Punishment is exactly what it is.

"You know them press boys didn't like me much either when I first got here," he reminds Roger.

"I know, Mickey," Roger says, quiet, serious.

"You just got to understand them a little. Whitey taught me that. All they want is to feel like one of the team. You do that, and they're gonna love you."

"I'm not good at talking the way you are." Roger meets Mickey's gaze in the mirror, and the look on his face—there's so many layers to it Mickey can't even pretend to understand them all. Roger is deep water, while Mickey himself wears everything he is on his skin.

Still. If there's one thing he recognizes, it's somebody wanting something. Whether Roger realizes it or not, he's been looking Mickey's way since the season started.

"What you need is to learn how to relax," Mickey says, and then, "I could help you out with that." It's the impulse of the moment—or, hell, maybe it's the whole reason he came in here. Mickey's not much on analyzing his own motives.

He pushes away from the wall, and Roger stills, skittish and watchful, like one of those deer he likes to prowl after in the off season. Mickey grins. Guess that makes him the hunter then.

"Mickey," Roger says, barely a whisper. It's tentative and a little scared, but it's not no.

Mickey drags his thumb across Roger's lips. The things he'd like to do to that cherry mouth. He's never seen anybody blush quite the shade of red that Roger does, but he doesn't flinch or pull away. So Mickey moves in a little closer. He's always loved sex, since the first time he did it, the heat of bodies, rush of breath, the anticipation of what comes next. He's never been too picky where he got it—skin is skin.

With Roger, though—they're teammates. That's something different.

"You know you can always blame it on me afterward," he tells Roger with a little smile, inching closer still. "I'm a bad influence, you've probably heard."

Roger frowns. "I wouldn't," he says, stubborn and loyal, and then his voice goes softer, shyer, "And anyway, I'm not going to be sorry."

So many things Mickey wants to do, and the one thing he really shouldn't is to kiss that mouth, because things could get complicated awfully fast. Oh hell, who is he kidding? Things have _been_ complicated—the trouble here is that things might get serious.

Mickey presses his thumb against Roger's jaw and kisses him. Trouble is the one thing he loves almost as much as baseball.

Deep waters—that's Roger—and he starts out bashful, with little brushes of his mouth, timid touches of his tongue, but soon enough he's got his hands knotted up in Mickey's jacket, and he's letting out these noises that make every part of Mickey ache.

He really shouldn't drop to the floor—not because he hasn't done it before, not because he doesn't want to—but his knees are shot to hell this late in the season, and his hip hurts like all fuck. It's worth it when he gets down there, though, and Roger is staring at him, eyes huge and dark and bright as Christmas.

Even more worth it when he gets Roger's pants opened up, and his hand around Roger's dick, and his mouth in motion. Roger gasps in surprise and then moans. He grabs at Mickey's hair, his expression hot and startled, like nobody has ever done this for him before—which come to think of it, is entirely possible. Mickey always wants to be dazzling, but the possibility that he is the first ever to put his mouth on Roger's dick makes him want to be even better that.

The thing is, Mickey's always been a winner, and he's not going to win the homerun race, not going to break the record, but he can do this. Make Roger shake and beg and frantically push at Mickey's shoulders—"I'm going to, please, I have to"—make him come, panting, like he's just legged out a triple. Mickey knows victory, and this is exactly what it feels like.

If he thought Roger was blushing before, it's nothing to how red-faced he is as he zips up his trousers, helps Mickey to his feet.

"You can still blame me," Mickey teases.

Roger's mouth pulls into a thin, stubborn line.

Mickey laughs, and the last thing he should do is kiss Roger again, but doing what he shouldn't is his specialty. "You better get going," he says, after several more kisses. "Don't want to keep them reporter boys waiting."

Roger hesitates. "I could—do you want—" He glances down at Mickey's trousers, and this blush is the most spectacular one yet.

"Maybe later," Mickey says against Roger's ear, like the flirt he is.

Roger stumbles out of the apartment, pink-cheeked and dazed, and Mickey thinks maybe he'll be too distracted to be nervous around the reporters tonight. Who says sex doesn't solve problems?

He stands in front of the mirror and slicks his hair back. He has no particular plans of his own for the evening, but it's the last off day of the season, and he's Mickey Mantle. He owns this city. There's always a party waiting for him.

The best part is: when he comes home—Roger will be here. And it will be later.


End file.
